And she wept till she could weep no more. Then she washed away her tears in that well. Had it been in Greece of old, that well would have become a sacred well thenceforth, and Torfrida’s tears have changed into forget-me-nots, and fringed its marge with azure evermore. Then she went back, calm, all but cold: but determined not to betray herself, let him do what he would. Perhaps it was all a mistake, a fancy. At least she would not degrade him, and herself, by showing suspicion. It would be dreadful, shameful to herself, wickedly unjust to him, to accuse him, were he innocent after all. Hereward, she remarked, was more kind to her now. But it was a kindness which she did not like. It was shy, faltering, as of a man guilty and ashamed; and she repelled it as much as she dared, and then, once or twice, returned it passionately, madly, in hopes-- But he never spoke a word of that letter. After a dreadful month, Martin came mysteriously to her again. She trembled, for she had remarked in him lately a strange change. He had lost his usual loquacity and quaint humor; and had fallen back into that sullen taciturnity, which, so she heard, he had kept up in his youth. He, too, must know evil which he dared not tell. “There is another letter come. It came last night,” said he. “What is that to thee or me? My lord has his state secrets. Is it for us to pry into them? Go!” “I thought--I thought--” “Go, I say!” “That your ladyship might wish for a guide to Crowland.” “Crowland?” almost shrieked Torfrida, for the thought of Crowland had risen in her own wretched mind instantly and involuntarily. “Go, madman!” Martin went. Torfrida paced madly up and down the farmhouse. Then she settled herself into fierce despair. There was a noise of trampling horses outside. The men were arming and saddling, seemingly for a raid. Hereward hurried in for his armor. When he saw Torfrida, he blushed scarlet. “You want your arms,” said she, quietly; “let me fetch them.” “No, never mind. I can harness myself; I am going southwest, to pay Taillebois a visit. I am in a great hurry, I shall be back in three days. Then--good-by.” He snatched his arms off a perch, and hurried out again, dragging them on. As he passed her, he offered to kiss her; she put him back, and helped him on with his armor, while he thanked her confusedly. “He was as glad not to kiss me, after all!” She looked after him as he stood, his hand on his horse’s withers. How noble he looked! And a great yearning came over her. To throw her arms round his neck once, and then to stab herself, and set him free, dying, as she had lived, for him. Two bonny boys were wrestling on the lawn, young outlaws who had grown up in the forest with ruddy cheeks and iron limbs. “Ah, Winter!” she heard him say, “had I had such a boy as that!--”